Touchdown
by MizJoely
Summary: From the "50 Reasons to Have (Sherlolly) Sex" Meme on tumblr. 19. Celebrate major victory by favorite team and/or political candidate. A followup to my story "Half-Time".


**50 Reasons to Have (Sherlolly) Sex meme from Tumblr**

 **19\. Celebrate major victory by favorite team and/or political candidate**

 **Touchdown: A Sequel to "Half-Time"**

 _A/N: Betaed by asteraceaeblue, many thanks! Also Molly has a super filthy mouth, so just be aware._

"YES! IN YOUR FACE GREEN BAY!"

Sherlock winced as he heard Molly's exuberant shout from the sitting room. He was in their bedroom, with the door shut, wearing earbuds and listening to _extremely_ loud rock music – Metallica, for God's sake! – and he _still_ heard her.

It was a good thing they were alone in the building, or Mrs. Hudson would be letting her displeasure be known by banging on the ceiling with a broom if her hip was bothering her too much to manage the stairs. If not, she'd undoubtedly have clomped up to scold Molly in person. Only it wouldn't be Molly she'd scold; oh no, it would be _him_. She adored Molly and never scolded her about anything. He grumped about that as he tugged the earbuds loose and dropped them on the bed next to his iPod – well, technically it was John's – and rose to his feet. Molly was still cheering loudly, feet beating a thundering tattoo against the floorboards and hands slapping against her thighs as she celebrated what must be a truly stupendous play by Her Team.

Her Team being the Chicago Bears. Her Team, according to her, being the One True Team. The One Team To Rule Them All. The Only Team That Mattered. The Titanic of Teams…no, better not let her ever hear him use that one or she'd recognize the sarcasm no matter how he tried to hide it.

He wished he'd never asked her along on that case a year ago. Sometimes. Times like this, anyway, when her new obsession with American football interfered with their personal relationship. They only played sixteen games a season and yet that season seemed to stretch for an eternity, especially on days like this. He'd been banished to the bedroom for the sin of interrupting her when she was trying to watch the match – game, don't use the wrong term! – and distracting her. Distracting _her_! He hmphed again as he made his way down the hall, a scowl darkening his features. She certainly didn't mind him 'distracting' her when it wasn't football season! Encouraged it, even. And it wasn't fair, either; she absolutely thrived on 'distracting' him when he was trying to watch Jeremy Kyle!

As he reached the sitting room, having worked himself into a proper strop and about to unleash the full withering wrath of his deductive abilities on her, he found himself instead frozen in place at the sight that met his eyes: his pathologist, half-crouched in front of the sofa as if about to lunge forward into the telly, her pert rear sticking out and her hands fisted on her naked thighs. She'd shed the oversized jersey she'd been wearing (which read "McMahon 9" in tribute to one of their players) and was now clad only in her sleep shorts and vest, with her hair hanging over her shoulders and her nipples very clearly showing through the thin fabric of her top. Her cheeks were a becoming shade of red, her eyes were wide and excited, and as he watched, the tip of her tongue stuck out between her lips.

Sherlock's annoyance melted away, and all the blood in his body rushed southward at the sight. Instead of shouting at her, he licked his lips and rushed across the room, sliding onto the sofa behind her, content to just stare at her ass as she wiggled it unconcernedly in his face. "Oh, that's right, you know who's fucking boss now you pussies!" she crowed, raising one hand in a congratulatory fist-pump as her team scored again. A touchdown, was it called? Or was that when it was kicked into the goal? Whatever. He refused to clutter his mental hard drive with facts about the idiotic game, no matter what the incentive. Although her really remarkably foul mouth was doing just as much for him as her barely-clad form, and he shifted a bit to adjust himself as his body reacted enthusiastically to the combination of visual and aural stimulation Molly currently presented. Perhaps American football wasn't actually _too_ bad…

Oh how his hands itched to cradle the softly curved flesh so tantalizingly close to his face, but he refrained. With great difficulty. He had no desire to be swatted at and declared an annoyance for the second time in one night. Instead he continued to wait, and soon enough his patience was rewarded. The televised crowd roared, the announcers became excited, and Molly jumped up and down, shouting and clapping her hands as Her Team was declared the victor.

"21 to 14!" she crowed as she spun around to face Sherlock, her breasts jiggling. He forced himself to raise his eyes and meet her excited gaze. "Did you see that? Did you see them crush those sodding little wankers into the ground?"

"It was one of the most amazing performances I've seen this season," he said sincerely, fingers twitching as his eyes drifted back down to her breasts.

Molly gave him a knowing smirk as she reached out to lift his face up to meet hers by the soft pressure of one finger on his chin. "I meant the game, Sherlock," she said, still grinning. But she was digging her fingers into his hair, tugging hard at his curls and he nearly whimpered with pleasure.

"Oh, so did I," he agreed with false heartiness, not even bothering to try to pretend he meant a word of it.

Her hands (unfortunately) moved from his hair and landed on his shoulders as she moved forward, one leg on either side of his. Her breasts were now directly in front of his face. "So, that was a major, MAJOR victory for My Team," she announced. As if he didn't already know that. "How shall we celebrate?"

He licked his lips again as she leaned forward, teasingly close, only the thin vest and a few molecules of air between her breasts and his mouth. "P-pizza and beer?" he stammered hoarsely, remembering (somehow, even with no blood fueling his brain) that it was usually part of the American Football Culture.

"Hmm, is that what you've named them?" she teased lightly, then took mercy on him and once again reached up to tug at his curls. His whimper was louder this time and turned into a relieved groan as she mashed his face against her chest.

With another groan he latched onto her right nipple with his mouth while eagerly kneading her left breast with one hand. The other hand was tugging at her shorts, impatient to remove any further impediments to a proper celebration. She was making some very, very enjoyable noises – gasps and murmurs of approval and a few adorable little squeaks when he grazed her nipple with his teeth.

Once her shorts had been removed he turned his attention to her left breast, suckling earnestly through the cotton vest. Oh, that item of clothing needed to go too: his mouth was drying out and he had no interest in any sort of dryness right now. Only wet, and heat, and the slick feeling of flesh on – and in – flesh.

Clothes having been summarily dealt with – his and hers, both heaped on the floor – Sherlock was finally free to indulge himself in the only part of Molly's sport obsession that he had any interest in: the victory celebration. When Her Team lost it was almost as good, because then there was the consolation sex, but she was much more enthusiastic when they won. Much more…invested. And inventive. Like now, for instance, as she reached down to rub his cock along her nicely lubricated slit. She bounced herself up and down a bit, and there went her tits again, jiggling beautifully while her eyes closed and a blissful smile crossed her face.

His vocabulary always suffered during sex, he would willingly admit, but it was only because Molly had such a wonderfully filthy mouth that such clinical words as 'vagina' and 'penis' sounded wrong even in his own mind.

"Oh, God, Sherlock, your cock feels so damn good," she moaned (a perfect example). "Fuck, I can't wait to feel you inside me, it's so fucking good when you're filling me up." Her eyes snapped open and she stared down at him. "But I don't want you to come inside me today." Before he could do more than offer up a disappointed groan, she whispered, "I want you to come on my tits instead, will you do that for me, Sherlock? Fuck me hard, make me come and then just decorate my tits?"

He nearly came right then and there, except for the fact that she'd grabbed him at the base of his cock and squeezed tight. One of these days he would have to invest in a cock ring or else embarrass himself. Making a quick mental note to talk to her about where to buy such items (of course she'd know!), he nodded, then flipped them so that he was lying on the sofa while she knelt above him. She leaned down, resting on all fours with her hair straggling free of its bun, and kissed him. Her tongue invaded, her lips demanded and her teeth threatened; his hands shot up to cover her breasts, palming them desperately while he waited for her to stop teasing him and actually let him fuck her.

Molly, it seemed, was in no hurry; she continued to kiss him, humming when he rolled her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers. He tugged on them a bit to signal his impatience, and she nipped at his lower lip before sucking it into her mouth with a very suggestive motion. "God, Molly, please," he begged when she raised her head and smirked at him. He lowered one hand quickly to her sex, probing deeply with two fingers, desperate to replace the smug expression she was wearing with something as needy as he knew his own face to be.

It worked like a charm; she started writhing against his fingers, shoving herself back and forth, head thrown high and eyes screwed shut as she whimpered and mewled. "Fuck yeah, Sherlock, just like that, oh baby the things you do to me!"

"There are more things I'd like to do to you, Molly," he growled as he snatched his fingers away and brought them up to his lips. "For example…"

He opened his mouth, but Molly darted her head down and sucked them between her lips while he gaped in a combination of shock and surging lust. "If you want to taste me, Sherlock," she purred, "then come and get it."

He nearly toppled them both from the sofa with the force of his upward lunge; Molly giggled and squealed as he hungrily brought his mouth to cover hers. Tasting her like this was such a turn-on and he'd never even realized it till now. Amazing how, even after a full year of being in a romantic and sexual relationship with this woman, she could still surprise him. "You will never bore me," he assured her between kisses. "Don't ever think that."

"Never even crossed my mind," she replied with a cheeky wink. She grabbed his face with both hands and very nearly swallowed his tongue, she kissed him so hard. Before he knew it he was lying back on the sofa while she squirmed her way up, ending with her cunt directly over his mouth and her shins beneath his shoulders with his hands on her thighs. "Now put that clever tongue of yours to good use and I promise, Mama will give you a reward you won't soon forget."

His cock twitched; hell, his entire body spasmed as she cooed out those words, and he quickly set to work doing as she'd asked – no, ordered was more like it. An order he was more than happy to obey. Tasting her second-hand had been amazing, but there was nothing like the real thing. She was wet and slippery and hot and delicious, and the sounds she made were fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic, to steal one of her favorite words. She was chanting his name as she wriggled against his mouth, begging him to make her come – and make her come hard.

Oh, there was never any doubt as to that; he knew exactly how long to lick her slit, how soon to press his fingers deep inside her, when to lavish his direct attention to the hard little nub of her clit. He sucked it eagerly between his lips, using just the tip of his tongue to stimulate it while at the same time stroking deep inside her with two fingers…and she was shouting his name again, interspersed with the occasional 'fuck' and 'fuck YEAH' and even 'oh my fucking God, Sherlock'. Although his favorite was when she groaned, "That was fucking amazing, you nasty boy. The fucking porn world lost an artist when you decided to solve crimes instead!"

"The only thing I want to solve now is how to get you to ride my dick," he growled right back at her. Too bad if she needed recovery time; it was her fault he was so turned on he could hardly think!

He was extremely grateful that she seemed to agree with him; she raised herself up, staggering a bit as she stood next to the sofa, but he reached out to steady her, staring admiringly at her naked, sweaty form as she caught her balance. "Yeah, I did promise you a reward, didn't I?" she panted as she semi-collapsed on top of him. "Thing is, baby, I really need you to do all the work right now."

"That," he said, "I can do." With one arm wrapped securely around her waist, he managed to flip them with a minimum of fuss so that she lay beneath him. Both her arms were flung up over the side of the couch, with her hair fanned out in a tangled mess. Her lips were kiss swollen, her eyes half-closed, and she'd never looked more beautiful. Or more delicious. He kissed her again, hard, and didn't so much ease himself inside her as launch himself into her like a missile.

Which, as it turned out, was exactly the right approach to take. Molly's ecstatic cries turned to near screams as she neared her second peak. They became outright screams of his name and every swear word he'd ever heard (and some he believed she'd invented on the spot) when he reached down between them and slid his thumb over her clit.

It didn't take too many thrusts after that for him to join her, egged on not only by her vocalizations but by the way her pussy clamped around his cock and how she hugged him tightly with arms and legs. Her nails raking down his back certainly didn't hurt – well, yes, it hurt, but only in the most pleasurable way possible. And when she moved her fingers up to his scalp….mmm, yes, that was it, that very moment was when he shouted himself hoarse, pulled himself out and allowed his ejaculate to smear all over her belly and breasts, just as she'd asked him to do.

Twenty minutes later, when Sherlock finally found the energy to roll off the sofa in search of something to drink as Molly dozed in her post-game/post-coital bliss, he noticed his mobile sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Grumbling at the sight of the blinking light that indicated he'd received several messages while he was, erm, busy, he picked it up and carried it into the kitchen. After taking a refreshing drink from one of the half-liter bottles in the door of the fridge, he decided he'd better listen and get it over with so he could cajole Molly into waking up enough for round two…or at least get her to sleepwalk her way to their bedroom.

He blinked at the number of messages that had been left for him: Seventeen in all.

All from the same number.

John Watson.

 _Sherlock,_ the last one read, _you bloody asshole, the next time you and Molly decide to have loud sex in your flat, make sure the fucking phone is turned off!_

He didn't even try to restrain his laughter.


End file.
